


Interval

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4661061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hasn’t slept in eighty-nine hours. </p>
<p>John nearly wishes that Sherlock would pick up his violin and hack away at it for a time, if it would help to quiet his mind. But Sherlock is on a rampage, tearing through his own mind, raging against himself more so than at the rest of the world. And that’s saying something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interval

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks first to Amanda, for indulging me while I wrote this, and to Allison, for once again hacking away at it with her trusty grammar machete.

Eighty-nine hours.

Sherlock hasn’t slept properly in eighty-nine hours. 

John is _absolutely_ counting, now. 

The longer the time wears on, the more worried John becomes. Sherlock has been awake for nearly _four days_ , tiny, twenty-minute power naps aside. There is a case and that would normally be a good enough reason for John to do his best to ignore Sherlock’s insomnia for a bit, but their last good lead had been two days ago. Since that time, Sherlock has spent his seconds and minutes pulling at his hair and berating John vocally (and with scathing facial expressions) and taking his frustration at the situation out on various inanimate objects around the flat.

John nearly wishes that Sherlock would pick up his violin and hack away at it for a time, if it would help to quiet his mind. But Sherlock is on a rampage, tearing through his own mind, raging against himself more so than at the rest of the world. And that’s saying something.

There’s the bit where John honestly can’t stand to hear one more word about his own lack of intelligence, his height, his taste in clothing, but really, what he can’t take is Sherlock so sure that he’s failed their client, that the information he needs is somehow locked away in his vault of a mind and he just can’t access it. It’s difficult and heartbreaking to watch. 

John has tried many things; cups of tea have gone undrunk and sandwiches uneaten, suggestions that they go for a walk or out for Chinese have gone seemingly unheard. Undaunted, John sits in his chair before a frankly delightful fire and it dawns on him.

It takes John a quick internet search to find what he needs. Then comes the tricky business of entering his credit card information before Sherlock notices. The whole process takes less than five minutes and when he’s through he goes to the kitchen and pulls together a meal with enough protein and enough fresh vegetables that he’s sure that Sherlock won’t actually fall down and perish at the lack of nutrition he’s been suffering.

It’s a bit telling that when John puts the enormous salad and large glass of ice water in front of Sherlock that he picks up the fork and digs in, greedily even. Head ducked over the bowl he grunts his thanks, which shouldn’t warm John’s stomach but it does and John leaves him to it, goes up to his room to iron an outfit sufficient for his intended purpose. When he’s through, he descends the steps and makes his way into Sherlock’s room, pulling free a navy shirt that he enjoys seeing Sherlock in and tears through the thin plastic wrapping on Sherlock’s latest dry cleaning. 

John can’t help but think of the intimacy of it all, putting together an outfit for Sherlock, knowing what Sherlock likes and what suits him, what makes him look his best. He considers picking his way through Sherlock’s pants to find something equally proper but stops just short of it. If the long glances (longer than ever, truly, now that Mary is no longer between them, now that John is back at Baker Street) are anything to go on, they’re on the precipice of something far too big to be edged along by John picking through Sherlock’s extremely posh pants.

So he leaves the outfit laid out atop Sherlock’s surprising disaster of a bed and returns to the sitting room.

Sherlock is standing in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back, rocking slowly from side to side. The bowl with the salad is empty, the fork resting face-down atop the table, and John clears it, says nothing, but presses a warm palm to Sherlock’s shoulder in passing. Sherlock grunts again, and John tidies the kitchen a bit, returns to the sitting room when he’s sure that the food is finally settling in Sherlock’s stomach–he’s always a bit sated and sleepy and pliant after eating, just for a bit–and says with finality, “Alright, we’re going out.”

The words ring out between them in the quiet, late-afternoon, John’s voice steady and sure, leaving no real room for argument. This whole situation feels submerged, blurred around the edges. 

“Wha-,” Sherlock says and turns, blinks at John blearily and then shakes it off. “What?”

“Vivaldi, Royal Albert Hall,” John says simply, wrapping his hands around the back of his chair while leaning into it. He feels his palms begin to sweat, as he treads along ground that is a bit tricky.

Sherlock blinks and blinks, tilts his head to the side as though he’s truly puzzled. The entire show is troubling to John, but he lets it play out.

“I…” Sherlock swallows and John is entirely sure that he sees it, the spark that lights in Sherlock’s eyes at his suggestion; he _knows_ Sherlock Holmes and frankly, he delights in it right then. Sherlock clears his throat, tightens his hands behind his back and tries unsuccessfully to sound anything less than excited at the prospect. “Selected works?”

“That’s, yeah, that’s what the website said.” John straightens his spine, stands to his proper height, confident in the notion that Sherlock isn’t going to turn down his nose at Vivaldi. “So go have a shower, _definitely_ have a shave, pull yourself together and I’ll… order us a cab?”

Sherlock glances towards the kitchen, at the sofa, bites primly at his lower lip.

John rolls his eyes and lets out a brief chuckle. “Alright, and the scotch after.”

There’s a small hint of smile, a warm little curve of Sherlock’s mouth, and he looks less jaundiced than he has in a while, at least. John takes it as a win–doesn’t let on that there will in fact be no scotch afterward–and his stomach positively flips when Sherlock drops his dressing gown right there before the window and walks into the kitchen, peeling off his vest on the way; he tosses it in the vicinity of the sink, though it lands atop the kettle.

When the bathroom door has slammed closed, John fetches the shirt and jogs with it back up to his room, tossing it in with his own washing before he changes. 

Before his mirror, John tugs on a new vest; he leans into his reflection, runs two fingers down the slight curve of his jaw and lets his hand fall to the top of the dresser. These thoughts grip him at the oddest of times; he’s not a terrible looking man, has never given his looks a second thought really, but Sherlock Holmes is an _ethereal_ man, a brilliant man. 

John’s tongue rests on his bottom lip as he meets his gaze hard and head-on. Sherlock… is an attractive man. Sherlock is the most attractive person John has ever met. John unspools a little, his thoughts barrelling away from him, as he begins thinking about how he is attracted to Sherlock, needs him, cares about him, wants him, full stop. 

And all of this _nothing and everything_ between them is slowly chipping away at him. Now’s no time to think of it, of course, which is exactly why his subconscious is taking the opportunity to prod at him about it.

They’ve shared long evenings together, talking around the most obvious subject between them– the attraction, the _intimacy_ –and he’s entirely sure that Sherlock feels the same way about him as John feels about Sherlock.

But sometimes, when he forgets to put it from his mind, he thinks about what he could possibly offer the most brilliant person he’s ever met. If Sherlock sees something in him, he knows that he shouldn’t question it. Sherlock knows most people better than they know themselves. But he thinks about it now, as he takes in the bags beneath his eyes and his slightly graying hair and juxtaposes the image of Sherlock that he has in his mind with his own image of himself and feels foolish.

God, where–in the positive cavernous mind of Sherlock Holmes–would there be any room for an intimate want of John Watson.

John hears the sound of the shower turn off and startles back from the mirror, setting his thoughts aside for the time being, and hastily pulls on the rest of his clothing. He has to take care of Sherlock, now; he can sulk about his perceived unattractiveness, his stupid hopelessness later, hopefully–if the fates are kind to him–when Sherlock is asleep.

He finds his better pair of Oxfords and slips them on before bounding back down the stairs; once at the bottom he ensures that he has the tickets loaded on his phone and then shuffles through to Sherlock’s room to ensure that Sherlock is getting ready. 

Sherlock Holmes is a _very_ perceptive man, even when immensely tired, and so John finds it very odd that Sherlock doesn’t turn around when John lingers in his doorway. He’s allowed to watch the play of Sherlock’s back muscles as he pulls on a fresh vest and then the shirt John has chosen for him.

There’s silence for a time while John just watches.

Sherlock’s voice rumbles out, all raspy with sleeplessness but still retaining his trademark surety. “You like me in this shirt; it pleases you.”

John smiles, doesn’t really care that he’s been caught. “You look good in it, you vain twat, you just wanted to hear me say it.”

There’s a brief pause and then John can hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice as he says, “Perhaps.” He does up the final button. “You’re an open book, John.”

“Yeah,” John concedes, sounding a little rough and a little amused. “But just to you.”

“As it should be,” John hears him say as he steps away from Sherlock’s room. John stops in the hallway, chin to his chest, and smiles at himself, at Sherlock, at how positively _ludicrous_ and fantastic his life is. If his primary school self could see him now. It’s completely stupid how lucky he is, how fucked up and insane and _alive_ he has been and is, now. 

He finds himself in the sitting room, a bit exhausted at experiencing such juxtaposing emotions in such short a time. He’s just taking Sherlock to the symphony, he needs to hold it together for fuck’s sake. He just needs to get through the evening, block out the white noise bearing down on Sherlock’s brain, set him back on an even keel and put him to bed. 

He’s glancing out the window when Sherlock startles him, comes right up behind him and rests a hand on John’s lower back. (Sometimes he fancies that he was a shit soldier, letting Sherlock sneak up on him like that.) It _means_ something, but it can’t mean anything right this minute. He needs to take care of Sherlock, and the time for sorting all of this out is so much later.

“Ready?”

John swallows and turns, a very readable smile on his face. “Are you?”

Sherlock drops his lashes, snatches up John’s wallet and hands it to him. “Always.”

John chuckles and steers him in the way of the stairs. “You’re surprisingly dexterous for someone who hasn’t slept in half a week.”

“I’m surprisingly anything for anyone,” Sherlock returns and they both realize how entirely ridiculous the sentence is, and they laugh.

\---

John notices that there are only two other people in their box, for which Sherlock actually doesn’t voice his distaste, instead just frowning as they take their seats. Generally when they go to the symphony he delights in deducing everyone within his sight range but tonight he simply jogs down the steps and finds the properly-numbered chair.

Sherlock indulges in music, has made John indulge in music in the past, and he finds the public’s general disinterest in the finer, more complex pleasures appalling. That the venue isn’t filled to capacity is obviously annoying to him. 

Sherlock leans forward against the railing and peers down at the stage and John watches him, notes the silvery quality to his eyes. He’s _exhausted_ , but excited, and it’s a rather fetching and worrying look on him. 

John fights with himself for a moment before offering, “Did you… want a drink, I was thinking of grabbing-”

“Not scotch, actually.” Sherlock says, snatching the thread of John’s earlier offer, and turns to John, wearing a look like he’s surprised himself. “Ehm, I…”

John pulls his lips in and thinks. One drink won’t hurt too much, and perhaps it will help in relaxing Sherlock even further. “I think the champagne bar has-”

“Yes. That.”

“Champagne.”

“Mm, yes.” Sherlock says and turns his attention back to the slowly-filling theater. John watches him for a moment more and then turns, pushes his way through the box door and makes his way to the bar.

The last time he bought Sherlock a drink, he remembers, was on his own stag night. Sherlock had paced them well through the first few pubs and then John had taken over, suddenly realizing that he had been wanting to take a bit more of the edge off for the both of them, and for reasons he hadn’t really wanted to acknowledge at the time. It had been more complicated than John likes to admit, the warmth of the alcohol snaking up his spine, doing things to his head, making him think about the flush of Sherlock’s cheeks and the color of his eyes. 

He hadn’t been thinking of Mary then.

It had been a problem.

And he’s _hated_ himself for it. 

He makes it way through to the bar and orders two glasses of champagne–fuck it–and grabs the flutes with a bit too much force, champagne sloshing over the side and onto his hands. Angling his way in with a shoulder, he makes his way back to their box and pauses entirely in his steps to take in the sight before him.

Sherlock looks a bit unhinged from his sleeplessness, a bit boyish, far too excited, leaning his chin into his left hand and positively eating up all of the activity below. John was worried that he’d find Vivaldi too pedestrian–and he has a thing against some Baroque composers–but from the look he’s wearing now, John’s sure he’s gotten it right.

And this _face_ he’s wearing. God. It’s new, a face John has never seen before and it stuns him a bit. It stuns him so much that he glances to the other people in their box, to those in the box next to them, wondering if they’re _seeing_ what is in front of them.

Sherlock Holmes entirely _taken_ with something.

And no one else is noticing.

It’s a damned shame and an entire pleasure in an instant. He glances to the ceiling and then back down at his feet before blowing out a forced breath and forging on. “Ey, here,” he says and touches Sherlock’s shoulder with the base of the flute.

Sherlock flicks his gaze up to John, gives in a brief, blank look and then breaks into a pleased smile. “Haven’t had champagne since…”

John turns and takes his seat. “Since.”

“Your wedding.”

John’s face tips and their gazes meet, immediately. “Low blow.”

Sherlock shrugs and takes a prim little sip, all posh restraint. “The truth.”

“Still.” John takes a long pull from his glass and then huffs, sits back heavily and looks up at the acoustic baubles hanging from the ceiling. The murmuring from the audience fills the space between them while John tries not to watch Sherlock. 

He just needs to shut off his brain and get him into bed.

_Put_ him into bed. 

Put him to bed.

The announcer makes it apparent that people should take their seats and Sherlock sits back, their shoulders crammed together. It’s nothing they’ve never felt before, but it feels amazing and _different_ and claustrophobic and while John knows he’ll enjoy the program, he can’t wait for it all to be over because perhaps he didn’t think this well enough through. Being this close to Sherlock. Being this aware of his own desires. 

John is glancing down at the stage himself when he feels a slight pressure against his hand and notes that his flute is tilted differently because Sherlock’s champagne flute is angled against his own; he hadn’t even heard the clinking. 

“Cheers,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Yeah?”

Sherlock shrugs, tears his gaze from John’s and settles it back on the stage. “Well we have to, don’t we? So, to… this? You. Knowing that… to Vivaldi.”

John blinks over at him, wondering where his sentence was going to lead originally and knowing, but being too cowardly to accept it. “Yeah, right, to Vivaldi.”

They toast, audibly and each take a sip as the lights go down. 

The perfunctory introductions are made and before John knows it, his champagne is almost gone and the orchestra is taking their cue from the sprightly old conductor and launching into the program. 

They haven’t been to the symphony in some time, and so it’s been a bit since John has been faced with such a full richness of sound. Sherlock’s lone violin performances are always delightful, but this is something else entirely. He gets a bit lost in it, the tympani thudding through his heart, finding his spine, causing him to shiver, just once. He feels brought to the stinging precipice by the crescendos and dropped gracefully back to earth as the symphony plays on, seguing to a different movement.

Sherlock, beside him, sighs, straightens his back and folds his hands in his lap. He’s the picture of sophistication and suddenly John wishes that he had another glass of champagne in his hand, wishes that he had the whole bottle, maybe two, so that he could numb all of his higher senses, distract himself, just focus on the fucking music and not the living, breathing _man_ beside him.

Christ.

He gulps down the rest of his glass, sets the empty flute down beneath his chair. cups his hands over his knees and presses down. 

He’s been in an active warzone, damn it, he can hold himself together. John takes a breath and then another, deeper, and allows himself to be tugged in by the music. It’s easier than he expected, the sound hitting his ears, where they sit high in their box, so smooth and powerful and after a few more breaths he sinks back into it. His seatback is hard, but he doesn’t feel it; his eyes instead drawn to the synchronization of the violins, the beauty in the way the musicians duck and flick the pages of their sheet music. 

He doesn’t mean to turn to check on Sherlock but he does, out of habit. 

Sherlock’s face is illuminated by the pale violet and cornflower that is being projected onto the stage. It’s not that he’s beautiful, it’s that he’s rapt and entirely taken, mouth partly open in awe, melting forward toward the barrier of the box as though he can’t help it.

John is–in that instant–so proud and so stunned that when the interval is called, it takes him a moment longer than it should to shake himself from the trance he’s allowed himself to drift into.

“Interval,” Sherlock says, and John raises his gaze towards Sherlock’s.

He looks manic, a bit, but that’s to be expected. Eighty-something hours and all. But he also looks a bit lost, a bit like he’s trying to keep his wits about him, grasp at the tether of reality. “I…”

“Sherlock, I think it’s time we head back.”

“It’s not over,” Sherlock claims, no heat in it at all, not really protesting, but making a show of it because he’s Sherlock Holmes and it’s what he does.

“Well no, but fairly sure we can come back tomorrow and you can say something to _someone_ and we’ll be able to sneak into the second half without paying a quid, so…”

Sherlock’s head falls. He doesn’t lower it, it falls, his chin to his chest in a mirror of a gesture that John is sure he himself has made a thousand times. Entirely normal for him, but for Sherlock it’s telling. “Yeah,” John decides, “we have to go.”

The way that Sherlock blinks at him, molasses-slow and bleary, and John wonders just how quickly he can be bundled into a cab and taken back to 221B. 

“Alright,” Sherlock mumbles.  
John experiences a moment of shock but then nods, gets up and retrieves their coats as Sherlock pulls up behind him. 

They have to walk out to Exhibition Road to hail a taxi, but once there, John manages to snag one with relative ease; Sherlock doesn’t even bother to throw up a hand. The flat is only on the other side of Hyde Park and normally they might consider walking but Sherlock wouldn’t make it that far at this point. 

John gives the cabbie the address and sidles up onto the bench next to Sherlock, glancing over at him to ensure that he’s situated comfortably. He’s statuesque, sitting beside John. His eyes are closed, his face a blank mask, hands clasped loosely together in his lap. 

Though John knows that taking Sherlock to the symphony was just the thing, he feels a bit guilty that he couldn’t find something in the flat to calm him down. He feels guilty for having Sherlock get dressed and go out when he’s clearly so knackered. It feels so odd, that Sherlock isn’t watching London whiz by out the window, that he’s quiet and still. 

He worries his lip for the remainder of the ride, until they arrive at Baker Street; John has to tug gently at Sherlock’s sleeve in order to snap him from his reverie. When his eyes slide open they’re glassy and bright and Sherlock blinks at the low light in the vehicle as though it’s too bright. “Come on, to bed with you.”

John slips the driver ten pounds and climbs out, walking around to the other side of the cab briskly in order to open Sherlock’s door for him. “You’ve got to stop with this,” John mumbles and on instinct thrusts out his hand.

“No’m,” Sherlock begins but doesn’t continue, grabbing John’s hand for added leverage and walking around the boot of the car and skipping up onto the pavement.

He rolls his eyes as he pulls out the keys and reaches around Sherlock’s body to unlock the door. With a careful hand to the small of his back, John ushers Sherlock inside, his emotions once again warring within him. There’s the need to reprimand Sherlock (isn’t there always?) about the way he treats his body and there’s the need to take _care_ of him, and John can’t figure out which will win out and so he says nothing, just remains aware as Sherlock ascends the steps before him; if he’s going to fall, John’s going to need to catch him. 

They make it into the sitting room without incident and John helps Sherlock out of his coat, not bothering to turn on the lights or remove his own coat before he once again prompts Sherlock forward with a hand pressed to his waist. 

“It was,” Sherlock sighs, shuffling through the kitchen, “the crescendos. The decrescendos. I… do you feel them, John?” Sherlock’s face turns a fraction and he pauses for a brief moment before continuing his shuffle. “I _feel_ it.”

“I know you do,” John mumbles. “I knew you would.”

“You did.” Sherlock says.

“Yeah, I can observe too, you know,” John passes over the threshold of Sherlock’s room and doesn’t bother to turn on the light there either. “And you need to sleep.”

“You _want_ me to sleep,” Sherlock struggles to say, sounding like he’s winded, as he stoops and sits on the edge of his bed; John watches him with hands on his hips, as Sherlock works his shoes off. 

“That too,” John concedes. “But maybe I overdid it, I just didn’t know of anything in this flat that would make you-”

“No,” Sherlock interrupts, working at the buttons of his shirt. “It was… right. It was good. I, yes, I… need sleep.” Sherlock looks up at John from beneath his lashes and slips the last button through the hole. “I can’t, I won’t-”

“You’ll figure it out,” John says quietly. “You always do.”

“Always,” Sherlock nods as he tugs off his shirt and tosses it toward the foot of his bed; John sighs and steps forward to retrieve it, hanging it back up carefully in Sherlock’s wardrobe. When he turns around, Sherlock is struggling out of his trousers and about to throw those too towards the foot of his bed. 

“Ah!” John chides and reaches out to snatch them up, hanging them alongside the shirt before quietly closing the wardrobe door. Sherlock chuckles and without preamble, rolls over and tugs the covers up to his shoulders. 

The light in the room is low, and Sherlock is thrown into a beautiful, stark chiaroscuro and John stands watching him, hands curled into fists as his sides as he tries desperately not to give anything away. “Right, well,” John bounces his fists against his thighs and turns towards the door, military rigid. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He’s very nearly closed the door to Sherlock’s room when Sherlock’s deep voice calls out, “John?”

“Yeah, you need something?”

Sherlock blinks at him, levers himself up using his right hand, and dips his head. “Mmm, come here.”

John takes a step forward, closer to the bed, swinging his arms as he does so, and stops. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, flops himself back down on the bed dramatically and then levers himself up once more; his hair is a _disaster_. “Come _here_.”

John swallows thickly and walks right up to the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “What?”

Before he can rightly process what is happening, Sherlock is shifting up onto his knees and wrapping a warm palm around the base of John’s neck. He knows they’re going to kiss before it happens and there are too many thoughts buzzing through his head for John to process even a single one.

And so it happens.

Sherlock kisses him, warm and sweet; he lingers there, pressing the tips of his fingers just slightly into John’s skin and shifting his lips just a fraction before pulling off. “You’re a good man,” Sherlock says, smiling up at John as John watches him settle back into the cozy nest of blankets.

There is an unbelievable silence between them for a time before John glances towards the doorway and back at Sherlock with such indignation that he can actually feel it burning the tips of his ears. “You’re going to just… do this now?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock smiles, sleepily, nods his self-satisfaction.

John can’t believe it, cannot possibly wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock has kissed him, wanted to kiss him and is so damned pleased with himself. The face John pulls is dangerous, all teeth and promise. “Yeah, you’re going to sleep for twelve hours and make up for the past few days but bet your arse when you wake up, we’re discussing this.”

Sherlock just grins at John and turns over onto his other side. John can hear Sherlock waving him off with his words. “After I solve the case.”

John nearly growls, “Okay, after you solve the case, then.”

He hears Sherlock yawn and then say, “Good.”

“Damn right, good,” John says, passing his tongue over his bottom lip as he moves through the door and pulls it shut behind him. “Damn right,” he says and goes to make himself a nice, strong cup of tea.

He’s not going to sleep tonight.


End file.
